I recently finished writing an essay on Frank O'Hara, and got quite swept up with his style. This is a tribute to that.


A Poem Between Two Persons.

The rolling tobacco sticks to the throat, but at least
it's not expensive and it doesn't lack flavour
and leaves your chest feeling rusty like after a can
of RED STRIPE, or a shot of whiskey,
and I brew a coffee, almost black,
but with a sarcastic amount of milk
because I enjoy the bitter taste that lingers

I cast my eyes about the empire of my desk
there's not much there, but everything means something.
A picture of me, must be sixteen years ago.
I look at him, shades on, hair slicked down, collar up
bolognese beard around the smile
Dad's holding the camera, that's who he's smiling at.

A harmonica I can't play, and a poem
I don't understand, a plastic mug that I use
as an ashtray, and for keeping all my loose change.
The empty packets of DRUM and tins of import lager
might mean something to you as well.

So I start writing my letter to Jacob
didn't know I had so much to say
sometimes things can get a little too much
and I wish I had more good news.



Poetry by JAMES ROSS
Read 637 times
Written on 2012-02-01 at 02:18

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I like this, and read all your poems and stories as a result. I enjoy your writerly style, the ease of your characters, the variety of thoughts. You seem to enjoy writing a lot, at least that is what I perceive, that it's a pleasure rather than a task or a compulsion. Anyway, good stuff. Or as Graeme might say: choice quality stuff.

Also, thanks for the tilt toward Frank O'Hara. I did a quick Wikipedia scan, and read some of poems. It's funny how some people, him for example, live in the thick of life, while some of us, me for example, live on the periphery and read about the others.
2012-02-01